


Gentlemen Prefer Brunettes

by vscothot420



Category: DC - Fandom, DCU, DCU (Comics), Gotham (TV), Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arkham Asylum, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Minor Violence, Past Child Abuse, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, i wrote this during quarantine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23461417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vscothot420/pseuds/vscothot420
Summary: Tropes are tropes for good reason. Ergo, all it takes is one bad day.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. Playgirl

All eyes, on me. Though I can’t say that I blame them; I am a sight.

Fishnet tights. A little lace bodysuit. Hair in a dramatic updo. Tattoo choker. Cat-eye liner and cherry stained lips. One of the bunny ears of my headband is broken, hanging limply, like a dead thing. I’m something straight out of a Playboy: Grunge Edition.

The blood splatter all over my face and cleavage doesn’t help.

People have been looking at me strangely all night long. If I were uncomfortable before, that uneasiness has nothing on the unadulterated mortification I am feeling now. As I’m frogmarched through the hall, I try my darndest to ignore the leers from each cell we pass, the jeers and whistles from my fellow inmates. 

I’m doing an okay job, all things considered. So, I’m not sure why I notice him as I do, why my eyes gravitate towards him. Maybe it’s how he’s looking at me-keyword:  _ me.  _ Not my ass. Not my chest. Straight into my eyes. When he licks his lips, it’s not a lewd sexual gesture, but an unconscious movement. He’s lost in thought, with those dark, calculating eyes set on me. I shiver, tear my eyes away.

The guard is unlocking my cell now. As he uncuffs me, his hands linger a moment too long on the small of my back. I can’t tell if that tickling sensation on the back of my upper thigh is him trailing a finger, feather-light, or a draft, because I’m trying not to be able to tell. Instead, I notice my room: a nasty toilet in the corner, right in the open, that I’m dreading having to use. A tiny mattress with a super-thin pillow and grey sheets. A white and black striped dress lies on top. My uniform.

I am told to get changed. The guard doesn’t turn around. When I slip the dress on over my head, maneuvering what little clothes I am wearing off underneath it’s protective shield, he looks disappointed. He was hoping for a peepshow, but he’s out of luck. 

“The underwear, too.” So I trade my underwear for plain black cotton. I watch him slip my thong into his back pocket when he collects my things. 

Now I am alone with my thoughts-which is a dangerous thing. I don’t want to think, don’t want to feel. So I let the most innocent part of the day play over and over in my mind. The thing that hurt the least. 

Those dark eyes. I can still feel them burning into me. I shiver in my sleep. 


	2. Calm Before the Storm

I feel sick to my stomach. I’m not looking forward to breakfast, my first hoorah in the mess hall. In the wild. But, as the guard herds us out of our cells and down the hall, I have no choice but to follow along. It’s too late for me. 

My brain slowly wakes up. I’m terrified. A million questions. How bad will the food suck? I try to focus on this petty thought-it’s the least scary question. Still, no matter how I try to not think about it, the other questions are there, bubbling at the surface. Will the others ignore me or flock to me? Will the guards interfere if anyone tries anything? Am I dead?

Head down, mouth shut. I collect my food. Find an empty table. Try not to draw attention to myself. 

It seems to be working. I’m surprised, after the show I put on yesterday. I guess I didn’t make such a big impression, after all. In a nuthouse, it makes sense that a half-naked girl parading around wouldn’t be the craziest thing that’s gone on.

This doesn’t make me hopeful-there is no hope left for me, now. Not for the next 15 years, not until they pass and I am eligible for parole. Until then, I’m toast. In the meantime, however, I allow myself to feel this small relief. 

I glance up exactly once throughout the meal. Guess who’s looking at me from across the room? There’s something so devouring about the way he meets my eye. An unwelcome thought pours into my head, another reason why I was drawn directly to him the night before: he’s so very handsome.

I resist the impulse to look up again, after that, digging my nails into my thigh, the bloody indents hidden by the material of my dress. 


	3. Applesauce

Lunch doesn’t go so smoothly. 

Maybe it’s because everyone’s more awake, or maybe curiosity is bubbling, or maybe morning meds are starting to wear off, or maybe it’s a deadly combination of all of these factors-but I’m becoming popular.

I feel the shift in atmosphere once I am seated, a lonely figure on the outskirts of the scene. It’s an aurora, this buzz in the air, like a bad omen. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse ogling-some outright staring, some stolen glances. While the bold staring freaks me out on the basis of pure instinct, it’s the sneaky looks that scare me the most-I figure that the ones more subtle are the smart ones. I instinctively know that they are the most dangerous.

I brace myself for the storm. 

Same game as yesterday: no eye contact. No expression-no smiling to myself or frowning at my sandwich. I’m not sure I have it in me to act the part of a psychotic killer. I’m too soft-hearted for that, and a bad liar to boot. The way I see it, my only chance at survival is to be a sedentary vegetable, like so many of my fellow inmates. Pretend to be doped up on brake fluid, drooling and stupid, and I’ll be just fine. That’s what I keep trying to reassure myself, at least.

I realize just how massively misled I am when someone plops into the seat beside me. I tense up, expecting the worst. Could it be the cannibal I’ve heard of? Or the hitman who worked with Falcone? Or the guy with several different murderous personalities?

“Can I have your apple sauce?”

Pretty pecan skin, warm brown eyes. I hand over the applesauce, careful not to make any sudden movements. She’s pretty, but that doesn’t mean much around here. Cute doesn’t mean you’re not batshit. 

“Everyone’s curious as to what you did to wind up here.” She peels the plastic off the cup, and starts pouring apple sauce into her mouth. “You seem pretty sane to me. Just a first-impression vibe.”

She seems sane enough to me, too. Not anything like these creeps and idiots. She seems so reasonable, so friendly.

“I killed someone.”

“Well, yeah. I figured. Who hasn’t, here? But, like, details, girl. Who, why, how, and when?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She raises her eyebrows, like,  _ huh _ . “Okay.”

“What about you?” I don’t recognize her from the news or anything. And she seems so  _ normal _ . I find myself hoping that I’ve found an alliance in this cold place-maybe even, I daresay, a friend. 

“Oh, me? I killed 32 people. Don’t worry, though. All men. Us girls gotta stick together.” she lightly punches my shoulder, a show of conspiracy. Then, she pulls out yarn and a pair of huge wooden needles and starts knitting.

“Oh. I’m Betty, by the way,” she says, an afterthought.

“I’m Mae.” 

And that’s how I made my only friend here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a cute lil intro. I always promised myself I'd never write a fan-fiction, but here we are, ig, haha. I'm kinda doing this instead of Virtual Learning during the whole quarantine thing? Eh, who gives a shit about failing Algebra, anyway ;)  
> Probably more to come soon, maybe? I have waaay too much free time, what with me skipping all of my classes until school's back in and all.  
> Leave comments, I thrive on clout ❤  
> Stay safe and healthy, I love ya'll:)


	4. Slay, Queen

Mealtimes continue like this for exactly two days: me and Betty. Mostly I sit and try not to be too obvious in my people-watching, and she knits. We also talk. 

I’ve learned a lot about how things work around here. First Rule of Fight Club: don’t talk about Fight Club. Arkham’s version of Fight Club is not optional. If you are an inmate, you are a member, no exceptions. Snitching, including dry snitching, is a death sentence. Being rude is also a death sentence. Cutting in line, that’s a death sentence. Staring, that’s a death sentence. Sitting quietly and minding your own business? Death sentence. And don’t expect the guards to intervene: they’re worse than the crazies. 

Moral of the story, morality here is a fleeting commodity.

especially important, I get the tea on whoever interests me.

"Guards?" awful, she tells me. Treat women like trash. Systematic objectification is a toxic tool for oppression that-

"That guy, over there. The one Barbara Kean's all over." He looks like a pompous asshole; I can just tell. She confirms my suspicions.

"That jittery dude in the corner?" Her eyes light right up, and begins getting into it. A rapist. There's no stopping her now. Once she's finished, i ask about the person that's really been on my mind. 

"Jerome?" Dangerous. Unequivocally. Perhaps the deadliest character in Arkham. It's the smart ones that'll get you, she warns. Stay clear of that one. All of them, over there are bad news. 

Despite her warnings, I’m getting a little too comfortable. Not that I’m feeling warm and cozy in my new home, quite the opposite. The point is, I’ve wavered from being 100% on guard. 

I don’t realize this until it's too late. Until a great big bear of a man is towering over me, leering. 

How should I play this? Betty advised me to act tough, unemotional, badass. But that’s just not me. So, I do the next best thing. Play dumb. 

“New meat,” he growls, a lecherous look in his eyes. A hungry look. I barely withhold from shuddering. This guy, I’m all too familiar with. He’s the one infamous for slicing up a bunch of girls, filleting them. Pretty girls, Betty told me, disgusted. Pretty brown-eyed brunettes, just like you. Nasty-ass man, she said. Betty’s very into women’s empowerment.

Until now, I’ve been very careful, very fortunate, to have avoided his attention. I guess my luck’s run out. 

Betty must sense this too, because she grabs her knitting and darts out of the line of fire, across the room, to a table full of zombies. Safe and sound. I wasn’t expecting us to be ride-or-die after less than three days of knowing one another, but damn. 

It’s pathetic that I feel a little betrayed. 

But, no time to dwell. Because Greenwood is here, and he means business. Before I can collect myself, he’s leaning into me. If he were too close for comfort before, he’s really crossing a line now. And now he’s sniffing me, my hair, the flesh of my neck, his scruff touching the exposed skin. And Jerome is across the mess hall, I can see him behind Greenwood’s back, watching what is happening, watching _me_ , intent, like they’re a show going on and he’s very curious as to how it will play out. 

“Delicious,” Greenwood growls, making my blood curdle. And then he fucking _bites me_ , not hard, but not lightly, either. He’s trying to scare me. And it’s working.

That’s when playing mute flies out the window. Before I know what’s happening, I’m on him. I’m small and nowhere as strong as him, not even close, but I have three things going for me. I’m agile, I’m scared out of my mind, and I have nothing to lose. 

I black out for a minute, my brain not catching up to me until what’s done is done. When I come back into reality, I am standing over him, ready for him to come back at me. But he’s not getting up anytime soon. His face is completely bashed in, grotesque, like Glenn from The Walking Dead. I spit out a hunk of flesh and drop my dinner tray, horrified. I did that. I did that? I wipe the blood from my chin. 

The guards decide it’s time to swoop in. One of them grabs my arm, drags me away. He looks pissed, but I can tell it’s only because I made a mess to clean up. Paperwork. Not that tey do paperwork around these parts. 

On my way out, I step on one of Greenwood’s broken front teeth.

That’s when the clapping starts. Some of them are ecstatic, like I’m Jesus reincarnated. Like I just told them they’re all pardoned, or brought the dead back to life, or told them they’d be getting a regular supply of nicotine delivered to their cell from now on. Betty is of this group- “I knew you were a bad bitch, girl! Slay, queen!” Some look like they don’t know what they’re clapping for, just gaze idly at their soggy sandwiches and hit their hands together. And then there’s Jerome, hooting, laughing that unsettling laugh of his, the one that gives me chills. He’s grinning like he’s just heard the funniest joke ever. But his eyes, just as calculative as ever. 

When I’m back in my cell, consumed by dead silence, this is all that I can hear. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like short chapters piss people off? Or maybe that's just a me thing? I'm honestly going to do my bestest to write longer chapters in the future. Not that it's necessarily going to happen because nobody's actually going to ever read this anyway, haha.  
> p.s. If you read this and don't leave a comment, ur lame. And, yes, Imma whine until people comment lmfao  
> p.s.s. don't forget to go out outside and move that sexy ass. I was wondering why I felt like shit, but then I went into nature and shit and got myself some sunshine and all was beautiful in the world again  
> p.s.s.s drink water 2 :)


	5. Isolation

Solitary confinement is no laughing matter.

At first, no big deal. I am glad for the alone time. Anywhere in Arkham is miserable, no doubt, but at least here I am safe. No longer do I have to worry about watching my back. _If I make that face, how could it be misconstrued? Did he see me glance at him, oh, my gosh, is he coming over here? Why is that guard looking at me like that?_ It gets real old, real fast. 

No more of that. Nobody bothers me here. In solitary, it's just me and four padded walls. Peace and quiet. Comparatively, bliss. 

But that was just a first-four long weeks ago. 

After a couple days, when the novelty of tranquility had worn off, the anger reared it’s big ugly head, sneaking up to me, out of the blue. The unfairness of my situation snuck in. Why was I being punished? Although it is true that I hurt Greenwood very badly, it’s also true that, as juvenile as the sentiment sounds, he started it. I may have gone beyond the realm of self-defense, but, frankly, so what? It’s not as if that sort of violent outburst is exactly out of character, even uncommon, for a fine institution such as this. In my short but potent stay, I’ve seen quite a few such occurrences, with aggressors receiving nothing more than an early dismissal from common-areas. In fact, guards seem to find a perverse sort of satisfaction in such events-their own personal WWE gone nuthouse. Where’s my slap on the wrist? What’s different in my case?

But anger is so very exhausting. Funny enough, so is sitting sedentary with zero mental or physical stimulation. It can be hard to produce energy when you have no means of expelling it. Ergo, any malicious ardor is short lived.

I did that I could to avoid remembering. I did sit-ups. I practiced the splits. I tried to remember old dance routines from my high school's Dance Team. Anything to put off thinking.

But it couldn’t be helped. All good things must come to an end, I suppose. 

* * *

Where did my imagination transport me? To a yellow house with robin's egg blue shutters, and a perfect white picket fence. Cream colored curtains, always drawn, so you can’t see inside. Not that anybody wanting to. It’s clear that a perfectly good family lives inside. 

Two beautiful girls. One younger, with flaxen hair, always twirling around on the lawn, her little pink tutu flopping around, and one in her Junior year of high school, quiet and sweet. Always reading. Honor roll. Never misses a Sunday Service. 

Their uncle. A cop. Always involved in the community, making the world a brighter place. So young when he took in those girls all those years ago, when their parents decided they didn’t want them anymore. What a generous person, to do such a selfless thing. How respectable. 

As long as you don’t look behind the curtains. 

* * *

Two weeks pass like this. Just me and my thoughts in a dimly lit cell.

When the door swings open, I squint through the offending light, having a difficult time discerning whether or not the guard is real, or just another figment of my imagination. When he yaks my arms together, fastening the cuffs so tight that the steel bites into the soft part of my wrists, that’s when I decide what’s happening is really happening.

It’s not my day to use the showers-I’ve been keeping count, religiously, my last shred of the reality-but that’s where he takes me. He wrinkles his nose when he uncuffs me, and waits outside the showering facility, in the hall, technically breaking protocol. I’m in such a disgusting state that I’ve managed to turn off the guard from a chance to watch me suds up-an opportunity that they don't often squander. So,  _ that’s  _ what it takes to get a little taste of privacy around here. 

I’m just thankful that I’ve lost my ability to smell myself in the past six weeks. 

I’ve never enjoyed a shower so thoroughly-the luxury of water flowing over my skin. Before, I had turned my nose at the sulfuric smell, the less than ideal water pressure-now it feels like heaven on tap. I inhale the sterile scent of liquid soap as if it’s a meadow of wildflowers, hot cocoa on a chilly evening. Nothing has ever been quite so delicious.

Or bright. I don’t recall the world being so bright. My eyes are still aching on the walk back to my cell. My vision is going in and out. 

When I pass Jerome’s cell, he’s a black and white and orange blur on his bunk, propped up on his elbows.But I can tell, instinctively, that he’s wearing a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist an allusion to the weirdness we're all experiencing ;)  
> I promise Jerome will have his moment in the sun soon.  
> Stay safe, be kind, and eat fruit, xoxo


	6. Bunny

Believe it or not, it’s good to be back. Am I scared? Absolutely, yes. It’s like my first day all over again. Only, this time, I know firsthand how fast things can escalate here-how delicate survival can be. This only serves to make me more nervous. On the flipside, now I know that there’s something even scarier than a hoard of crazed criminals: being alone. 

Maybe, I ration to myself, taking my seat beside Betty, who’s back to being all chummy with me now that the danger has passed, maybe things will go soother this time around. Now, everyone knows I’m more than just some scared little girl. More importantly, I know that. I’m not helpless. Not this time around. 

Or maybe I’ve put a target on my back. Greenwood will certainly be seeking revenge, I know that for sure.

Though, I don’t see him out and about. I doubt that the guards would keep him away for my protection-they’ve already proved they couldn't care less if they tried. He must be in a solitary of his own, I decide, satisfied. 

“Looking for someone, Bunny?” As soon as Jerome has perched on the seat across from me, Betty has booked it. So much for girl code. 

“What...did you just...call me.” Words fail me. My heart is racing, jumping up my throat, choking my words. The most dreadful premonition hits: I’m about to die. 

Why is my reaction so much weaker than it was with Greenwood? I can’t say. Maybe it’s because I know that Jerome, however benign he appears, is infinitely more dangerous. He may be sitting here speaking to me quietly, sanely, but there’s a dark glint in his eye that tells me all I need to know. I have no chance.

“Bunny. Short for House Bunny.” Jerome leans closer, closer, too close. “Inspired by your little outfit. I suspect there’s a backstory.”

“No, no story.” He tilts his head to the side, a smile stretching his face. Now that I’m evading his questions, he’s really interested. In a place where people are quick, even desperate, to brag about their crimes, imagined or real, it's strange that I'm anything less than thrilled to play into his storytime prerogative. “Kink kill,” I amend, vague, hoping to avoid further conversation although, in retrospect, my words should bring up buckets of follow-up questions out of the woodwork. At the same time, it seems to be the simplest explanation for showing up at Arkham the way I looked, for murdering someone in a burlesque costume. Mostly, I say it because I'm an awful liar, and it's not a lie, exactly.

He nods approvingly, though boredly. Like my tale is trite, old news, cliche. “Mm, yeah, been there, done that.”

I stiffen at his words. I’ve watched him on the news, read all about him in the papers. Like any other Gothamite. Something about him, about the crimes he commited, his antics and theatrics, his raw charisma, has captivated us all. Matricide. That's the only violent crime that he's been accused of and convicted on. Is this the “kink kill’ that he refers to? Or are there more crimes, murders he hasn't been connected to? Either way, he's got my skin crawling.

Or, I consider as I watch his grin expand, so wide I grimace-it looks painful. Or, he’s fucking with me. 

Not that I’m going to press the matter. Truth be told, I’m better off without knowing.

“Well, duh. It’d be weird if you hadn’t.” I’m not sure what I’m planning. Who I want him to think that I am. But it seems to be paying off. After all, I’m still breathing.

“You,” he says slowly, appraisingly, “are a funny girl. It’s good to be back.”

“Actually, I think I prefer it in isolation.”

“That’s a trait of narcissism, ya know. Making things all about yourself. No, it wasn't a question. More like a statement. I was talking about myself. It’s good. To be back.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What do you mean by that.”

He tips his chair back. Head tilted towards the popcorn ceiling, basking in the spotlight, taking his sweet time. “I went on a little field trip.”

My jaw drops to the floor. “You-you escaped? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Well, not exactly. Is it escaping if your psychiatrist lets you walk?” he leans back further, on the edge of tipping, and I'm suddenly worried that he’s going to fall backwards, crack his skull on the slate floor. He’s considering, mulling over his own words, musing. “Wasn’t even a challenge. Kind of disappointing. Girls are so...easy. Predictable. Like putty.”

“Children _do_ love silly putty,” I quip. As I say it, I’m very aware that I may be crossing an invisible line, taking this attitude thing of mine too far. But maybe, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, maybe I’m betting on it.

I’m an idiot; Why would I provoke someone who murdered his own mother? Someone who is clearly, obviously, completely dangerous. If I have a death wish, I’m starting to reevaluate it. 

So, I nearly sigh with relief when he laughs, a short but vivid burst of a laugh. His eyes still have that edge, though, cutting into me like a knife. I try to push back the feeling that I’m about to bleed.

Quick as lightning, the front legs of his chair slam into the floor, and his face is inches from mine. I get the sudden urge to boop his freckles, especially the ones at the very tip of his nose. I imagine what might happen if I were to, the tip of my finger falling to the table between us. The blood. I grimace to myself, ignoring my absurd impulses.

He’s speaking now, slowly, measured, very softly. Silky smooth, like a purr. 

“If you were wondering about Greenwood, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” That characteristic head tilt, sardonic with the whole body. Green eyes searching mine. Huh. I thought they were black? “You bashed his brains in pretty good. He died.” His eyes must find whatever it is that he was looking for in mine, because he pushes back his chair, purposefully, calculatingly, making it scream like nails on a chalkboard. Before he turns, I see the look on his face-he’s not trying to hide it, of course. So satisfied. I watch him skip to the other side of the mess hall, watch him join a table of inmates. The hardened ones that Betty told me to avoid at all costs. Their faces turn towards him like sunflowers to the sun as he settles amongst them, king of the loonies. 

Not me. I’m beside myself. Was that his corpse lying on the ground as I spit a chunk of his forearm to the ground beside him? Or, even, as I went to town on the side of his face with the plastic lunch tray? He did evil things-killed more girls, _consumed_ more girls than I could count on both hands. But was he a soulless creature? Who am I to say.

All I know is, he didn’t mean to harm me. Intimidate me, for sure. But beyond that, I was safe. My life wasn’t under threat. 

I feel sick to my stomach. Mostly because, despite the guilt that slithers down my spine, there’s a little voice that whispers in the back of my head. Soothingly, tantalizingly, seductively. _He fucked with the wrong girl_ , it says. This voice is free of blame, is shameless. All it knows is desire. The same voice that sang to me the night I slit my uncles throat.

I try to tune it out. La-la-la. I want to stick my fingers in my ears, like a child. No matter what I do, it remains, an irresistible lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so intimidated to write Jerome! Writing my own characters is so much less stressful, my gosh. Still, it was fun to write, nevertheless. Tbh, half the reason I'm writing this is to expose myself to having my writing out there in the world. I'm always very private with things that I write-I don't even let my friends or, gosh forbid, my family, read anything I write. I guess part of it is that my name's not attached to it. It's much less scary than I thought it would be to have people reading stuff I write, so that's cool :)  
> So thankful for ya'll. Eat your veggies (this is officially a self-care blog). xoxo


	7. Slipping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: suicidal ideation.

I am not going to kill myself. 

Nevertheless...a girl can dream, can let her imagination wander to dark places. She can spend all night in her dark, empty cell, sitting in deafening solitude, pondering, compiling a list. A little voice in the back of her head can sing it to her, a mantra, until light streams in through the little barred slit, high up on her cell wall. Comforting, like a child's nursery rhyme. All the ways she could escape.

Not as n find a way out of Arkham and into the outside world-no, I’ve given up on that notion. I’d be a childish fantasy to have any hope towards that end. I am no cunning criminal mastermind. I have no money, no friends, no power. I’m not charming enough to seduce my way out-I’m no Jerome Valeska. No way, no how.

There’s no bypassing the facts: I’m probably going to die here. There’s no way around serving my 15 years, the mandatory time before I am eligible for parole. Beyond that, I’m not counting on much-once you’ve been dealt a life-sentence at Gotham’s notorious insane asylum, you tend to serve it to term. Especially if you are a cop-killer, like me.

I am surrounded by the worst-one of them, actually. Rapists and murderers and violent psychopaths.No friends, no allies, only myself. I am going to rot here-I can feel it happening already, a sickening decomposition of mind and soul.

Still, there is a way out. 

I could bang my head against the cement wall-a popular pastime around these parts. Again and again, until my brains are as pureed as Greenwoods’. I could sharpen the handle of my toothbrush, fine enough to puncture an artery. I could strip out of my dress, wrap it tight around my head, covering my nose and mouth, and wait until I suffocate. It would take willpower, commitment, but it’d be totally doable. I could go out of my way to piss off the wrong person-I have a lot of options with this one. I could throw food at a guard, or spit at another inmate-especially one of the hacks who Jerome sits by during meals. Those are the ones who don’t drool or wet themselves, the intelligent ones. There aren't many of that breed, but they’re the most deadly, for sure. Make a wrong move, get on their bad side, and you're done for.

I could befriend Jerome- _ that’d  _ be a death sentence, for sure. 

This train of thought is oddly calming for me. It’s a blast from the past, I suppose. 

See, I had rituals back at home. Walking my sister home from the bus stop. Dance practices every Monday and Thursday. Family dinner in the dining room at 6:00.

My uncle coming into my room at night. Not every night, of course-just once every couple of weeks or so. The makeup, and the hair, and the outfits-lacy little things, Garters and knee socks and fur-trims. Stilettos and bunny ears. I’d flinch at every flash of light, every shutter from his camera. Polaroid after Polaroid. 

After each photoshoot, I’d lay in bed shivering. I was grateful, believing it or not, thanking God for stopping him from touching me. He never laid a hand on me. He liked to remind me of that. 

This time, this  _ after  _ time, was when I;d make my little lists. A game, something to keep me sane, fool myself into believing that I had even a little bit of control. There was one decision I could make, at least. My version of counting sheep.

Though it’s a morbid connection, this links me to my past life, who I used to be, in the outside world. This rhetoric keeps me grounded. 

I have nothing left to lose, except for my sanity-and I can already feel that slipping. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super random but ya'll need to go listen to Conan Gray's new-esque album, Kid Krowe.  
> xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

I’m trying with all my might to ignore Jerome’s attempts to win my attention. It’s more energy consuming than you’d think. I’m barely hanging on. 

It starts with a subtle wink, such a fleeting gesture that I’m not sure it wasn’t just my imagination. I’m still mulling it over when he throws me a more direct clue: a  _ come-hither  _ motion. I don’t move an inch, pretend to be oblivious. I’m disheartened when the tray banging starts, and then the food throwing. I know he’s serious when he begins flinging peach slices, the lone edible component of today's breakfast menu. Though I’m sure they were swiped from a zombie, they are a precious, finite resource nonetheless. He’s making a real, tangible sacrifice to catch my eye, and I’m doing my best to avoid finding out why. 

But he’s making it harder and harder. He has exceptional aim-he’s already slammed me a couple times, smack in the middle of the forehead, never deviating from his target. He hits Betty several times in the back of the head, too-she glares at me each time, silently accusing me, like I’m to blame. I just dab away at the fruit juice with the back of my hand and push the mushy broccoli around and around on my plate. It’s incredibly difficult to concentrate-with that intensely earnest look of concentration on his face, directed on me- on not concentrating on him. I’m hoping that if I'm thorough enough in my ignoring, maybe he’ll get bored, lose interest in me. 

No such luck. He has a more persistent attention span than you’d think. 

“If you need encouragement, here’s a proposition: either you pay me a little visit, or…” He’s holding a plastic spork up, close to his face, inspecting it, introspective. “...we see how many swipes it takes to saw through that pretty little throat of yours with one of these babies.” When his eyes flicker to me, the way the corner of his mouth tugs up makes me wonder what he’s seeing on my face. 

As soon as my brain unfreezes, I snap my mouth shut and year my eyes away from him. I can still feel his stare, the darkness in it, the threat. Heat rises to my face-something about the manner in which he spoke has left me embarrassed, flabbergasted. So quiet, so conversational, almost as if he were speaking to himself. Wholly confident that, though I’m the entire length of the mess hall away, in a room teeming with screaming, moaning, rambling lunatics, I’ll hear every word clear as sunshine. It’s as if he knows how I cling onto every syllable, how aware my entire body is of him. How it buzzes with energy with every breath he takes, every movement that he makes. I feel so exposed, so vulnerable. No way I’m getting any closer. No way, no how. 

I focus on my own container of peach slices now, the tangy, sugary taste. I tug at the fabric of my dress. I examine my hair for split ends. I glance at the clock, high up with it’s metal protective guard. Five more minutes. Eternity.

I can’t resist any longer. Though I know it might be the death of me, I figure it’s just a matter of time, anyway. I glance up.

A peach slice slides off the tines of my spork, landing on the table with a sickening spat. My stomach sinks.

Jerome is no longer seated at his usual table. No, he migrated a row over. The girl he stands behind is close to my age, maybe a little older. She’s pretty, I guess, if you look past her ratty hair, diaper lines, and glazed-over eyes-a zombie, gone in the head as can be. Too doped up on brakefluid-a mentally and physically numbing mixture of depressants, stimulants, and anti-psychotics-to move a muscle against Jerome. She sits completely still, oblivious, defenseless, as Jerome grabs her jaw, tilting her head back to expose her neck. When he presses the dull edge of the spork to the soft, delicate skin, she actually smiles up at him-the gentile, trusting smile of someone who cannot know any better. My heart breaks a little. So helpless, so stupid, so pathetic. Without meaning to do so, I rise from my seat.

Jerome returns to her smile as he appraises her throat. Prodding, testing, feeling where the pulse throbs the strongest. So absurdly clinical. He is deciding. Where, oh, where to execute this procedure? His eyes dart to me, and I instinctively know why. Not to make sure the audience is paying attention, I don’t believe, but to make certain that I understand that this little exhibition is for me.  _ Because  _ of me. 

The first cut, a sudden jerk of the hand that makes me jump, barely makes a cat-scratch. But I know better than to be reassured. It’s merely a tester, a teaser of what’s to come. The second cut is more violent, seeing red. Again and again, until the girl is choking on her own blood, gurgling on it, laughing on it. 

I could watch her bleed out. Let him slice and dice her until her pretty little head bounces onto the cement floor. I could live with that. I know exactly why she’s at this fine institution: for the rape and murder of her baby sister. The world would be a more beautiful place without her in it. Beyond that, it’d be a kindness. She’s a monster-does she deserve to have to keep being herself? It’d be the right, moral thing to do, to stay out of it, not to intervene in this purging. To let her escape herself. The way she’s smiling, so blissful, so at peace, she seems to like what Jerome’s doing. She stretches her neck, exposing it to him, helping him along. Maybe she’s not as brain dead as she looks, after all. 

As soon as I start in their direction, I regret it. I know I’m making an awful mistake, but it’s too late, no turning back. Before I can stop myself, get myself under control, my hand is already closing around Jerome’s. I pry the spork from his fingers, surprised that he lets me so easily, without a fight, and toss it to the ground. His hands are warm, slick with blood. 

I throw my hands up uselessly, cluelessly. What to do? Her throat isn’t slit, not quite. It looks much worse than it truly is. Even so, the blood is worrisome, flowing freely, swiftly. 

“Give me your shirt.” I try to make this an order, but it comes out as more of a plea. I hate how desperate my voice sounds. I’m trying to be tough, assertive, in control-it’s not going so well.

Jerome shakes his head,  _ no way _ , like I’m insane for asking. Maybe I am. 

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously. See, I’m not a fan of blood on my clothes,” he confesses, wiping his blood-drenched palms on the front of his shirt. “Squeamish.” The biggest, most absurd lie I’ve ever heard in my life.

I eye his shirt once more, just to be totally sure. He eyes me back, wrapping his arms around his shirt, protective-like. 

I roll my eyes to the back of my head, turning my back on him-wearily, or course-concentrating on pressing the skirt of my striped dress to the woman’s wound. I’m careful to apply just the right amount of pressure. The blood saturates the fabric completely in a couple of seconds, though it seems to be pouring less heavily, albeit slightly. 

I’m dabbing away at a fresh wave of blood when the girl makes a low, guttural sound, deep in her throat. I back off, giving her space, assuming she’s choking again. Poor girl.

Until I catch sight of her face, crumpled up-not in pain, but in raw rage.

That’s when I realize that she’s not choking-she’s growling. 

I stumble back just as she lunges for my throat. 

I’m on my ass, backing up on my elbows, totally startled. She’s inches from my face now, teeth bared, jaw snapping, spittle dribbling down her chin, like a rabid animal. I’m trying to keep her at bay, pushing at her shoulders, kicking at her, but she’s bigger than me, and stronger in the way that only completely batshit women can be. I glance over her head at Jerome, and he’s losing his shit-to him, watching a zombie tear out my jugular with her teeth is golden, the epitome of entertainment. Just as I expected, I’m all on my own. I should be used to it-I wish I were. 

I punch her square in the nose, hard, but the blood doesn’t faze her. Instead of backing off, or even just hesitating for a moment, she surges forward as soon as my hand isn't on her shoulder to hold her back. I try to roll away, elbow her sides, but she's undeterrable. Annie Wilkes-esque. Her teeth, sharp and canine, are just beginning to sink into the soft skin of my throat, and-

The pressure suddenly lifts. 

I’m breathing heavy, so hard that each inhale stings, making me flinch. I’m raising my hands, ready to defend myself again, until I realize that there’s no need. The woman is sprawled out, unmoving. Her hair is matted with blood, from where Jerome hit her over the head.

With everything said and done, the guards decide now’s the time to get involved. As they swarm us, taking pulses and complaining, I watch Jerome’s face. His eyes are bright, alive. He’s still gripping onto the tray-well, half of it, anyway, The other half is resting by his feet; his food tray broke clean in two, that’s how violently he struck her. The way he’s holding onto it, I’m half expecting an encore when one of the guards takes hold of his shoulder. However, to my surprise, he merely drops his makeshift weapon to the ground, stepping over it as the guard drags him away. 

Before he disappears through the double-doors, he turns his head slowly to look back at me, and winks, slow, deliberate. There is a promise in this gesture, in the depths of his dilated pupils. A promise of more to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm binge-watching Shameless rn and, ahhhh, Ian got me dead.  
> xoxo


	9. Dreams

There’s not a whole lot for a girl to do in a place like Arkham Asylum. 

This is my routine: Take too many catnaps, sleeping my days away. Ignore and be ignored by Betty at meals. Read until my eyes ache. In the first week that Jerome’s M.I.A, I’ve nearly paged through the entirety of Arkham's small collection of books-Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, Angela Carter, the works. Though the library is far from expansive, I’m thankful the selection is as palatable as it is; it could be worse. I should write the Wayne Foundation a letter of appreciation sometime, for their charitable donations.The sad thing is, that’s a genuine thought; I’m a pen and a sheet of paper away from doing just that, I’m so desperate for some way to spend the time that stretches endlessly before me. 

So desperate, in fact, that I begin leaving my cell of my own accord, beyond absolutely necessary circumstances, strictly meaning meals and showers. It’s a telling indicator of the mental state I’m in, the fact that I’m willing to-happy to, even-venture out into the notoriously seedy “wreck” room, an area which makes the thick of the Narrows look like paradise. The mind-numbing boredom has escalated to the point of my being willing to seriously risk my safety for a taste of even the most mundane entertainment. I’d rather be surrounded on all flanks by dangerous freaks than no one at all. 

Sure, the prospect of living is a great incentive to stay in my cell, barricaded from the dangers of the Asylum. But stagnancy is a greater one, I’m finding out. 

Here’s what I am sure of:

I am so lonely.

I am so screwed.

I have nothing to lose.

And so, I go. 

* * *

It’s important to appreciate the bright side in times of distress. On this note, I’m thankful for my sudden bout of luck. For maybe the first time in my life, things are going my way; I’ve been staying clear of trouble, an impressive feat, all things considered. Though I’ve been spending as much time as possible in common areas, I’ve avoided any altercations. Sure, there have been incidents, but that’s only to be expected. The important thing is, I’ve managed to stay out of the line of fire. The worst insult I’ve suffered has been a touch of blood splatter in my hair. Easily washed out. Nothing big.

I’m amazed at my good fortune in this. With that said, I by no means expect it to continue much longer. Nothing good lasts forever. 

I decide that I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. So, this is exactly what I do. Keep curling up into a tight ball on the dingy brown couch, making myself small and quiet, transparent, like I’m not there at all. Watching, listening. I will give my fellow inmates this: crazy people are interesting. 

My favorite part of all of this is the little box TV, the main attraction. I stare at it until my vision goes funny. The only channel we’re permitted to watch is Gotham Cable News, which would be tedious in any other situation, but here, I’ll take whatever I can get. There’s something comforting, so familiar, so warmly trite, about the broadcast. The stories it tells warm my heart: shitty weather, political chaos, a stabbing spree in the Narrows (again). Same old, same old. Home. 

At night is when I am most awake. I pace and pace the length of my cell, restless, like a trapped animal. Anything to avoid having to face sleep. 

Including thinking. This is something that holds the power to keep me awake at night, surely. Ergo, I’ve been spending more than ample time wondering at what the incident with Jerome and the zombie meant.

I come to this conclusion: I shouldn’t have lifted a finger. 

I don’t have much of a bleeding heart-I didn’t really care all that badly about what became of that girl, whether she lived or died. If I’m being completely honest with myself, my getting involved was a selfish act on my part. I was trying to fool myself, supply myself with self-righteous ammunition. I wanted to trick myself into believing that I’m the same girl that everyone used to believe me to be. A good girl, with a heart of gold. I wanted to be able to look back at what I’d done and think to myself. I wanted to be able to look back at what I’d done and think to myself,  _ Hey, you did the right thing. Maybe there’s hope for your soul after all.  _ I wanted an opportunity to pat myself on the back.

My subconscious shenanigans backfired, and now they’re back to bite me in the ass.

This is one of the only aspects of my ordeal that I am having any success at understanding. A for the other parts, I’ve had no such luck at working through their deeper meanings. Jerome is abstract to me. I can’t seem to pin that boy down, what was going through his head. I can’t comprehend why he bothered with any of it. Messing it my head, fucking me over, un-fucking me over.

All I can be certain of is that Jerome is, for some mysterious, improbable reason or another, interested in me, and he won’t be done with me until that interest is satiated. This is far from over, of that I’m sure. 

There’s no way to think my way out of this predicament. I know that, but I try anyway. I wonder and wonder, ignoring the fact that it’s doing absolutely no good, until my body grows unbearably heavy, until I’m so exhausted that nausea creeps up on me. Until it’s all I can do to crawl under the thin sheets and submit to sleep. To my nightmares.

As soon as my eyes shut, I am somewhere else. 

Hell.

* * *

_ Flashes of light, making me dizzy. The rough feeling of lace on my thighs. My headband is too tight; it’s starting to make my temples hurt. My fingers itch to rip it off. But I know better than to say anything. _

_ I keep my mouth shut and suck in my tummy, pout my lips, stick out my ass, just like my uncle showed me to do. _

_ I guess she makes some kind of noise, because me and Uncle look up at her at exactly the same time. My little sister stands uncertainty in the doorway, clutching her little pink teddy bear to her chest. It’s sequins sparkle, catching the flash of the camera. _

_ It’s quiet, tense. My throat feels thick. I want to throw up or spit, do anything to get the badness out of me. But I can’t, because my sister is staring at me, old enough to know something strange is going on, but not old enough to be scared. To feel so sure that nothing bad could ever happen to you, I remember how that used to feel like. My heart aches for her in sympathy for the loss that she is about to experience. _

_ “You’re playing without me?” She looks like a kicked puppy. I almost laugh. If only she knew. “I want to play dress up, too!” The way her eyes light up at the prospect of staying up late and making pretend...I wish I could still make pretend. I try not to be angry with her, but I have trouble helping how I feel.  _

_ The way our uncle looks at my sister, as if he’s truly considering her request, makes my heart lurch. _

_ “It’s past your bedtime.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be. When tears well up in her eyes, I almost feel bad. But only almost, because I am too overwhelmed with relief to have room to feel anything else when she books it out of my room. She’s safe. _

_ But only for now. One day, I won’t be around to help her. Just like how no one was there to help me. I could never live with myself, should that happen.  _

_ This is what I am thinking as I jolt up, climbing down from my bed in a rush.  _

_ “Good girl. Go check on your sister. Tell her she can play next time.” _

_ I nod my head,  _ yes _ , a lie. That stupid, gloating smile...I run down the stairs with every intention in the world to wipe it clean off his face. _

_ Forever, I think, grabbing a knife from the block.  _

* * *

Tonight is a lucky kind of night, because it is one where my body decides, miraculously, to wake up before it gets to the really bad parts. When I bolt upright, it’s not a scream that I suppress with the back of my hand, but a laugh. Because I know what comes next well and, even if for just one night, I escaped having to relive it.

I use my sheets to wipe away the beading sweat from my forehead, sighing, calming my breathing, just like my therapist showed me. Inhale through the nose for four seconds. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight.

It doesn’t do shit. The resident shrink is kind of a hack.

It takes a while for me to calm down, let alone sleep. But I do, eventually. And when I close my eyes this time, it’s him I see. Pale, pale skin. Boyish freckles, the kind you only notice if you’re really looking. Constellations of warmth that I crave to map out in person, for real, fingertips trailing over soft skin. And those eyes.The way they glint, they come off as black, until you look closer. I imagine how they’d look in the sunlight, the greenest green, oozing, dripping, faceted. A million layers and counting. Infinite, full of possibility.

Nightmares. Just nightmares, I tell myself when morning light filters into my cell. Except, deep down, I know that this is a lie. One was not a nightmare, but a dream.

In the end, the only solid conclusion that I’m able to draw from my situation is this: Whether or not I want it to (and I think, stupid me, I just might want it to), things are about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental health is rapidly deteriorating, and I love it. Ya'll should listen to more Girl in Red and Odie, tho.  
> xoxo
> 
> EDIT: p.s. this work may be on a hiatus for a bit, but it hasn't been abandoned!


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